


Bound

by celeste9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Post - Half-Blood Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeste9/pseuds/celeste9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione felt like someday soon she would just reach out with her fingers and Harry would be far beyond her grasp, a hero who no longer got any use from his sidekicks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't tag any pairings because this is more of a character piece than anything and I wanted the reader to decide what they'd like to believe. But there are allusions to Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione, Harry/Ginny, Viktor/Hermione, Harry/Cho, and Ron/Lavender.
> 
> Section breaks are taken from various songs from Green Day's American Idiot album.

_i._  
 _she’s all alone again_  
 _wiping the tears from her eyes_

  
Hermione Granger is not, has never been, and will never be in love with Harry Potter.

Of course Hermione had read all about Harry Potter, she’d read everything about wizards that she could get her hands on. But Harry had been fascinating, and she had been hoping she would meet him, she knew he’d be in her year and there was no doubt, of course, that he would be getting a letter. But meeting him on the train like that, she hadn’t been ready for that. She’d been a little flustered and she rather thought she’d made a poor impression. Hermione had never been good with meeting people and she never knew what to do or say, and she tended to talk too much and to come off as a bit bossy.    
  
She had been positively thrilled to wind up in Gryffindor with Harry, but he'd always been with Ron Weasley, and she’d gotten the distinct feeling Ron didn’t like her. So she had concentrated even more on her studies and watched Harry. She had had a lot of time for that, because, well… she hadn’t… she hadn’t had any… _friends,_ exactly.

Harry had turned out to be not quite what she had expected. She had thought surely he would have been talented and at the top of their classes, that he would’ve spent a lot of time in the library, but he seemed a bit… average, actually. Hermione mastered spells faster than he did, and he hadn’t known the answers to any of the questions Professor Snape had asked him the first day in Potions. He wasn’t anything like she’d thought he’d be, after reading about him. 

Hermione started to learn that not much in life was like her books.

Harry was so reckless. There was that time he’d nearly been caught out at night going for a duel with Draco Malfoy and they’d gone into the third floor corridor that was off-limits, and met that awful three-headed dog (she wondered if she even _could_ call that thing a dog). And their first flying lesson-- don’t _even_ get her started.

(But secretly Hermione had loved watching him fly, he was so graceful and daring and the way he’d stood up to Malfoy… She thought maybe it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and she’d started to see what made Harry Potter so special.)

Those thoughts were quickly pushed aside. Hermione was much too practical to swoon over a boy breaking rules and showing prowess in a sport.

When she overheard Ron after Charms--

_It’s no wonder no one can stand her, she’s a nightmare, honestly._

\--she wasn’t sure what had hurt more-- the insult or the fact that Harry had laughed. She had cried in the girls’ bathroom for hours, and she strongly believed no one could fault her for it. After all, she spent evening after evening alone in the library with her books because she had no one to talk to, and she pulled out a book at mealtimes, too, so it wouldn’t look so strange that she sat by herself. She wrote her parents and told them not to worry, that her classes were going very well and she liked it in the castle and yes, she was eating well. She left out the parts about whether she could come home on the weekends because she was lonely and missed them and the other students thought she was an overbearing show-off.

And maybe she did show-off, a little, but she didn’t mean to. Hermione was merely proud of what she could do, and after all, school was the only thing she’d ever been good at.

Then the troll had burst in, and she had screamed because she’d never encountered anything so… so… well, she was Muggle-born, for goodness sake! She had needed Harry _(Harry)_ and Ron to rescue her, and it was the first time she’d ever told a lie in her life, let alone a lie to cover up rule-breaking, but what else could she have done?

And she had _friends._

  
 _ii._  
 _remember, whatever_  
 _it seems like forever ago_

  
How strange it was, to spend her mealtimes in discussion and in laughter, to sit at night by the fire in the common room and not have her books as her only companions, to sometimes just sit in a silence that was comfortable and not forced, to yell and cheer for Harry (who was her friend) at Quidditch matches. To be a part of something, a friendship and a secret. Strange, and wonderful.

By the end of her first year, Hermione had come to see that Harry really wasn’t so very average after all, and that book learning didn’t always count for much.

_Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things-- friendship and bravery and-- oh Harry-- be careful!_

She had meant it, all of it, and she’d thought she’d never been so scared in all her life while Harry was getting the stone (and poor brave Ron, he could have been seriously hurt), but in the back of her mind she’d known he would be okay, because he was Harry Potter. He was good and courageous and quick-thinking and even though he was a first year Hermione thought there wasn’t anyone better to be saving the stone.

It was a long time before Hermione realized that while that sentiment may very well have been true, it would have been better if it did not have to be.

  
 _iii._  
 _in the land of make believe_  
 _that don’t believe in me_

  
It had been awful, those days-- weeks, months, it all blurs together-- in second year when they had thought Harry had been the Heir of Slytherin. How could he be? Didn’t they realize he was _Harry Potter?_ Harry Potter, who’d faced You-Know-Who twice and hadn’t died, whose best friend (well, one of them) was a Muggle-born?

But there was a nagging voice that would not let her forget what she had thought herself, when he’d hissed that strange language and for all appearances sent a snake to attack that poor Hufflepuff boy. She had been scared, so scared, and had wanted to believe in him but she _didn’t_ know who he was, what if the Potters _were_ descended from Slytherin, how would they know, really?

It reminded her that she didn’t know this world. As much as she tried to fit in and tried to excel and tried to learn and know all she could, she’d never truly be a part of it. Not like Ron with all his stories and his brothers off with dragons and Goblins and his dad in the Ministry of Magic. Hermione’s parents would always be dentists and when people spoke of wars and prejudices and mass destruction she would always think of the World Wars and Hitler and the Holocaust a split-second before she thought of You-Know-Who and Muggle killings. 

The only difference was the thing that really scared her. In the wizarding world, she and her family would be the ones in danger, the ones mocked and ridiculed and called Mudblood, the ones hunted. 

She would never quite _fit,_ and nothing anybody said could make it better.

  
 _iv._  
 _sometimes i wish someone out there will find me_

  
And all of her fears came true when she was attacked.

Hermione had been so excited, so proud she’d found the monster-- the _pipes,_ Harry _wasn’t_ hearing things, no one else would ever notice the faint hissing in the walls-- and she couldn’t wait to find Harry and Ron, to share her discovery, and they could tell Professor Dumbledore and everything would be fine, the school would be okay, no one would die…

She had nearly run into the Ravenclaw prefect in her haste, but she’d had to warn her, she needed to know to look round the corners with a mirror, just to be safe, you know-- and then she’d seen it, those glowing eyes that seemed to pierce through her and she knew it knew she wasn’t right, she didn’t belong and then there’d been nothing.

She wasn’t surprised that Harry had figured it out. She had always known he was smart, smarter than he gave himself credit for. Maybe a little lazy, disinclined to do schoolwork, that was all. But with the help she’d given him, her notes from the library (lucky he’d found the paper…), he’d had no trouble connecting the dots, no trouble guessing it was Moaning Myrtle who had been killed last time, no trouble finding the entrance to the Chamber. 

He had been so brave, and he had saved them, and when she’d come running-- 

_You solved it! You solved it!_

\--he’d smiled at her and said he couldn’t have done it without her, and something inside her just _swelled,_ and everything had been worth it.

  
 _v._  
 _he lacks the courage in his mind_  
 _like a child left behind_  
 _like a pet left in the rain_

  
Ron was unbelievable. Intolerable. He had the emotional capacity of a newt and he just made her so _angry._ They hadn’t spoken kindly for ages because Ron had blamed Crookshanks for killing that stupid rat when he obviously _hadn’t,_ and so not only had Hermione had more schoolwork than even she could handle and too many hours in the day and time helping Hagrid that she couldn’t afford, but she’d had no one to talk to, not even Harry, because he’d taken Ron’s side and plus he was always with Ron and Ron was being… _stupid._

But while their fights were frequent and heated they didn’t (usually) last long. And Ron was… funny, and a good friend. He really needed to concentrate more on his studies and cared about rules about as much as Harry and the twins, and she suspected he’d been a bad influence on her, but he was a good person and being with him was fun. They were a good match, the three of them.

He only… Harry never could make Hermione as _mad_ as Ron could. They were both stupid sometimes, but Ron tended to be… stupider? Stupid more often? Stupid in more annoying ways? And why was she thinking about this again?

And then he would go and do something brave. He wanted so badly to be known for something, to distinguish himself like Bill and Charlie and Percy and Fred and George had, to be special like Harry was special. He always felt like he was in the shadow of his brothers and Harry, and maybe he was. Hermione, too, was just Harry Potter’s friend, but it was different because, well, she was top of the class. Ron didn’t have that. And Hermione didn’t have five older brothers who’d been Quidditch players and prefects and Head Boys.

Ron _needed_ so desperately, needed so differently from Harry, and it touched something in her because while it seemed she wanted to hit him at least once everyday, she also wanted to throw her arms round him almost as often, and wasn’t that strange? He wasn’t terribly talented, but Hermione rather thought that made him more courageous, because he was still always trying to help Harry and standing up for his friends--

_If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!_

\--hobbling on his broken leg with the color draining from his face, and at that moment, in the midst of her fear, Hermione thought maybe she loved him. 

  
_vi._  
 _cause everyone’s heart doesn’t beat the same_  
 _we’re beating out of time_

  
The years never got any easier for Harry. In fact, it seemed they got worse. First year Quirrell had tried to kill him, second year the students had thought he was trying to kill them, and then third year Sirius Black had been on the loose. She remembered that moment so clearly, ducking her head under the table at the Three Broomsticks after hearing why Black really was put into Azkaban, seeing the crushed expression on Harry’s face. He hadn’t said anything to them, brushed them away while he stumbled out into the snow and back through the passageway to Hogwarts, and she’d felt the tears pricking behind her eyes, but what could she have said? Done? She had never felt so utterly _useless,_ and so worried for Harry. She had wanted to hold him in her arms and whisper soothing thoughts in his ear and smooth his thick dark hair, but of course she didn’t, because that wasn’t what Harry and Hermione did. Instead she trekked back to Hogwarts with Ron in silence, murmured her goodnight while Ron went up to the boys’ dormitory, and she knew Harry wouldn’t talk to Ron that night, either.

Hermione was slightly abashed to admit that she was glad at least for that, that Ron wouldn’t get to share anything with Harry that he wouldn’t share with her.

The next morning she and Ron had worked out together what to say to Harry, but she knew as soon as they started that no matter what they said, it wouldn’t be right. How could they possibly understand what he felt? And she thought that was what she hated most, that she could never be quite what Harry needed, because he was Harry Potter and he had suffered so much that she could never imagine, and as close as she and he and Ron became, there would always be a distance between Harry and them.

And her fears had been confirmed when Harry had looked at them both, and she had seen the-- hurt? doubt? sadness? -- in his eyes, that all he felt listening to their perfectly rehearsed intervention was that they didn’t understand him at all. Then when he spoke, she’d _known_ he wanted to kill Black, that it didn’t matter what anyone told him, and while she would do anything in her power to stop him doing it she couldn’t help but think, in the emotional, less practical part of her being that she tried so hard to mask, that he should get his revenge.

That night, in the Shrieking Shack, had been so absolutely terrifying, and not only because they had been face-to-face to with a murderer. No, it was much more than that. It was Harry, facing the man who had betrayed his parents, finally letting out his pent-up emotions at the loss of his childhood. 

And then it was Harry, finding his godfather, finally having someone he could truly call family, only to lose him again. Hermione had never been so thankful for her workload before, because it had given them the means to save Sirius. She’d watched him, watched him save his godfather and himself from the Dementors with the Patronus, and she’d been completely in awe. Harry _was_ a powerful wizard, and if he would only work harder, he’d put Hermione’s skill to shame. She had never seen anything quite so beautiful and terrible all at the same time before in her life.

But as much as she could picture that moment in her head, it wasn’t the memory she recalled most from that night. No. Rather, it was Harry running forward to shield Pettigrew from Sirius and Professor Lupin, breathlessly stopping them from killing him.

_I’m doing it because-- I don’t reckon my dad would’ve wanted them to become killers-- just for you._

In that moment, Hermione thought maybe she loved him, too.

  
 _vii._  
 _forget me nots and second thoughts_  
 _live in isolation_

  
Boys were so _stupid._ Harry and Ron especially. And how dare they make her choose? How dare they make things so awkward that she couldn’t be friendly with both at the same time? Of course she’d had to choose Harry, because Harry had been stupid for making the fight worse, but it was Ron’s fault in the first place, and Harry didn’t have anyone else because no one believed him but her.

She knew where Ron was coming from, she did. He was always second-best and Harry being one of the school champions was just the last straw. It was silly, because all you had to have done was seen the look on Harry’s face when his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire and it was perfectly obvious that he hadn’t put his name in.

There was that, as well. Honestly, logically thinking, what chance did Harry have in the tournament, a fourth-year going up against students about to graduate? People had _died_ in the tournament, and no matter what Professor Dumbledore or anyone else said about the safety measures, it was still dangerous. 

But there was no talking to those two. It took Harry facing a _dragon_ for them to be friends again, and she’d cried for sheer joy and relief and yes, annoyance. 

And damn it if they’d ever make her choose again.

  
 _viii._  
 _but there’s nothing wrong with me_  
 _this is how i’m supposed to be_

  
Viktor Krum was a nice boy. He was smart and kind and brave and he cared about her. Hermione blushed every time she remembered him telling her how he’d gone to the library just to try and work up the nerve to talk to her (and how wonderful it was, to have that sort of effect on someone!). She had thought him stuck-up and arrogant at first, but he wasn’t at all. He was… nice.

_Just because it’s taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!_

And Ron was an idiot. He hadn’t even realized how much it had hurt, to be the last resort, to be the girl he had asked because there was no one else and because he’d been so _sure_ she wouldn’t have had a date. As if she’d just sit around waiting for _him_ to ask!

He had been perfectly dreadful at the Yule Ball, he’d had nothing but rude things to say about her and Viktor the whole night. Did he think she hadn’t noticed him staring at her the entire night? She wasn’t dumb, she knew that the real problem wasn’t that she was a… a _traitor,_ or whatever rubbish he’d said. She just wasn’t sure what she thought of the idea that Ron was jealous.

Then that ridiculous article from Rita Skeeter came out and Hermione had thought she’d die from the embarrassment. Harry’s girlfriend, really! It was absurd, of course. And they had made it out like she was only interested in Viktor because he was famous, which was miles from the truth. In the end she’d brushed it off because of the sheer ludicrousness of the claims, and she’d simply held up her chin and ignored the mocking till it blew over, because that was what Hermione did.

  
 _ix._  
 _drenched in my pain again_  
 _becoming who we are_

  
There was no describing the night of the final task. What it was like, to sit waiting for it to be over, to not know what was happening, what Harry and Viktor and Cedric and Fleur were facing in the maze. She had clutched Ron’s hand in hers without hardly realizing she was doing it, only half listened to his chattering while knowing he had to do it to keep from going mad himself. She noticed the nervous hitching in his voice, but she doubted anyone else would’ve been able to. Hermione had faith in Harry, of course, after knowing what he had accomplished already and after spending so many hours practicing with him, but still… People _died_ in this tournament.

And someone did die.

When Harry had suddenly just _appeared,_ clutching the Triwizard Cup with Cedric by his side, she'd nearly wept in relief. He was _safe,_ he was fine, it was all okay, and maybe he’d even _won!_ But Cedric hadn’t moved, and it seemed strange, and then people were rushing towards them and she couldn’t see anymore and she had a death grip on Ron’s hand and then people were _yelling._

_My God -- Diggory! Dumbledore -- he’s dead!_

It was all chaos then, running and screaming and she couldn’t see anything and were those tears on her cheeks? Ron had his arm around her waist now and oh God-- _where was Harry?_ But then there were Mrs. Weasley and Bill, and Hermione couldn’t really say what happened next except that she found herself in the hospital wing and she had so many _questions_ and then Harry was there but they weren’t to bother him, and Cedric was dead and Professor Moody hadn’t really been Moody after all and You-Know-Who was _back! --_ and even more than getting answers Hermione had wanted to hold Harry because he looked so scared and _broken,_ but Mrs. Weasley did it for her. In the tenseness of the moment she’d found that bloody beetle on the windowsill and made a bit more noise catching it (alright, _her_ ) than she had intended, and Harry had pulled away from Mrs. Weasley. She was sorry for it, because Harry looked so lost and she knew he wouldn’t ask for comfort. He would brood and shut them out and force smiles and laughter to try and prove he was okay when he wasn’t.

And maybe, in a while, he would be, and he’d be Harry again.

  
 _x._  
 _the world is spinning around and around_  
 _out of control again_

  
That summer she’d spent mostly in Grimmauld Place (and she had gone to Bulgaria to see Viktor, and how wonderful it had been, and how _jealous_ Ron had been when he heard, she didn’t even bother telling him she and Viktor were just friends), and at first it had been exciting, being around all those powerful wizards who were standing up to You-Know-Who, like a secret resistance movement, just like in a novel or a history book, but the novelty wore off after a few weeks of routine and cleaning and not being included. When Harry had come he’d been so _angry_ at her and Ron and he’d just refused to understand that they didn’t know anything, they _couldn’t_ tell him anything, and she was hurt to think that he didn’t trust them enough to realize they would’ve told him everything in an instant if they could have, that they’d been forbidden from writing him anything before.

When the prefect letters came she’d been so _proud,_ and so sure that Harry had gotten the other, because really, Ron, a prefect? But she hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings, and of course she was happy for him, but Harry looked so disappointed, with that stupid fake smile trying to be pleased, did he think she would be fooled? But Ron was, and she supposed that was the point.

Fifth year in general had been a nightmare. The way Harry was treated, as though he were crazy, as though he were an attention-loving prat… It was like second year, but worse. Harry had nearly _died_ last June, and yet everyone shunned him like he was some sort of disgusting bug. And that foul Umbridge woman, provoking him in class (but Harry _really_ should’ve kept quiet, he was right but oh, the things she could _do_ to him, it wasn’t worth it but Harry could never see that) and when she’d found out about the detentions-- oh, Harry! But he wouldn’t go to anyone, wouldn’t complain, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, and Hermione had wanted to hit him and kiss him all at once.

Cho Chang had been a disaster and Hermione’d found she wasn’t that surprised. Cho was too emotional over Cedric and Harry too inexperienced in that sort of thing. They’d been like a ticking time bomb. Admittedly, Hermione herself had put Harry in a bit of an awkward situation the time they’d gone to Hogsmeade, but it wasn’t her fault Harry’d made such a complete mess of things and besides, the interview had been incredibly more important than Harry’s love life. And if she were completely honest, Hermione wasn’t all that upset it hadn’t worked out between he and Cho.

And Quidditch… Hermione had never really grasped the lure of Quidditch, why everyone made it out to be so important, but she had been so happy for Ron making the team, he’d been so thrilled. But the first match had been perfectly dreadful and she’d had to hide behind her hands she couldn’t bear watching (one more chorus of ‘Weasley is Our King’ and she might’ve killed someone), and then after… Malfoy was an idiot but he wasn’t _worth_ it, couldn’t they see? But Harry never could control himself and neither could the twins, and it was a miracle Ron hadn’t gotten involved. Poor Harry… Quidditch had meant so much to him but it was just another thing Umbridge took from him.

But she couldn’t break him. The DA was Hermione’s baby but it was only Harry who could’ve made it work. She had been so proud of him, to see him taking charge and teaching them all and she thought it was probably the first time she hadn’t minded one bit coming in second-best in terms of learning. It was the most… _alive_ she’d seen him for so long. Of course in the end, Umbridge had wrecked that as well, but she never took his spirit.

  
 _xi._  
 _as my memory rests_  
 _but never forgets what I lost_

  
What a miserable thing the mission to the Ministry had been, she had _known_ it was insane and she had known it would only go wrong but there was no talking to Harry and it was all she could’ve done, right, be a friend and help him because he wouldn’t give in, not when it was Sirius in trouble. But he’d _lied_ to her, he’d said he was practicing Occlumency but he hadn’t been, why hadn’t he been? Sure it was with Snape, but Dumbledore had told him how important it was, and it was because he hadn’t practiced that Voldemort had been able to get to him, to trick him, and Sirius had _died._ Oh God, Sirius had died.

But that wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair to think like that because that made it seem like she was placing blame and it hadn’t been anyone’s fault. A mistake that couldn’t have been helped, because if it had been Hermione’s only family maybe she would’ve acted crazy, too, and Voldemort certainly was a powerful wizard. Sirius shouldn’t have come, but he’d been cooped up in that awful house all year and it had been Harry in trouble. There were so many factors, but really it came down to the fact that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had broken up another family.

There had been a cloud of dread hanging over her the whole time, an aura of doom following at her footsteps. It hadn’t helped that the Department of Mysteries had been filled with artifacts and magic that even her curiosity hadn’t wanted to know about. And then being caught amidst the rows and endless rows of shelves with the small glass balls by the black-robed, hooded figures that were worse than nightmares, till Harry had signaled her with his idea she’d been too terrified to even appreciate.

Thinking on it, after, she could see they had all been very brave, Harry and Ron and Ginny and Neville and Luna and herself, but that wasn’t something she’d had much time to contemplate in the heat of it, not when she had been so close to dying, when she had been fleeing and throwing curses and dodging curses, when it had seemed more likely they wouldn’t make it out alive than they would. But Harry’d led them in and, improbable as it had seemed, he’d led them out again (if you could say that, as the Order had had to come in), and she thought she could speak for everyone when she said they were all stronger for it but they all considered themselves lucky, as well (she had a scar of her own on her stomach to prove it).

Except, maybe, for Harry. Hermione rather thought he didn’t think he’d been lucky at all.

  
 _xii._  
 _some days he feels like dying_  
 _she gets so sick of crying_

  
It was awful, when Sirius died. She didn’t know what to say to Harry but it didn’t matter because he wouldn’t talk anyway. But that was just Harry. He got angry and moody and he brooded and he wouldn’t let anyone help him or even admit he needed help. Hermione knew he’d been with Dumbledore, that night after the attack, and he’d been so _different_ after, that she didn’t know how much of it was grief and how much was what Dumbledore had told him.

Harry never mentioned that night, though, that discussion-- or that fight, with _Voldemort_ \-- and neither she nor Ron was brave enough to ask him. It wasn’t until months later that they learned about the prophecy-- and how could Harry have _kept_ that from her? That he really was destined to fight Voldemort?

_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._

Hermione felt like she was losing Harry more and more with every day that went by, that someday soon she would just reach out with her fingers and he would be far beyond her grasp, a hero that no longer got any use from his sidekicks. 

  
_xiii._  
 _here comes the rain again_  
 _falling from the stars_

  
When Dumbledore fell, it was a lot of things. It was the death of a great and powerful wizard. It was the loss of the symbol of their resistance to Voldemort. It was the death of perhaps the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts had ever seen. To Harry, it was the loss of a mentor and the closest person he’d had to a father since Sirius had died. 

To Hermione, it was all those things, and it was day she marked as the end of her childhood.

They had been lucky again, like at the Ministry, but this time they had Harry’s potion to thank. She held no illusions that without it, it was very likely that Dumbledore would not have been the only death that night, and somehow she thought, as bad as it was to sit at Dumbledore’s funeral, it would have been worse to sit at the funeral of a friend. They were all still children (even if they were old inside from experience and fright and things they should not have seen and done), and children were not meant to die.

Hogwarts had seemed an impregnable fortress, but it wasn’t. Dumbledore had seemed a godlike figure, but he wasn’t. He was only a frail, old man. Through treachery and evil and deceit, they’d been broken. (And Harry had been _right,_ he’d been right about everything, about Snape and about Malfoy and if she could only have taken back all her doubts and her mistakes, maybe, just maybe, things would have been different-- but maybe, that was only wishful thinking and Hermione didn’t have the time or the luxury for that anymore.)

Nowhere was safe, and no one was immortal. 

  
_xiv._  
 _he steals the image in her kiss_  
 _of her heart’s apocalypse_

  
Ron had kissed her at Bill’s wedding. It had been nervous and quick and fumbling and they’d both been blushing when it ended, but then Hermione had gazed up at him and his eager, self-conscious smile and she’d leaned forward to kiss him again, and the second time had seemed like it had been meant to be.

Everything had changed then, and nothing at all. Ron still made her furious and he still made her laugh (but he didn’t _hurt_ her like he’d done, with his cruel words and actions and his spite, with Viktor and Lavender Brown), and Harry was still Harry, but they weren’t what they had been. Year after year even as they’d all gotten closer, Harry had drifted farther and farther away, leaving Ron and Hermione to stare after him wistfully and wonder what their place was. It had been only natural to take comfort in each other, right? To be a pair to Harry’s one, to keep Ron from falling behind as he’d feared he would.

But she’d thought she’d known, maybe even then, that it wouldn’t work. She loved Ron, and maybe she was even _in_ love with him, but… Ron’s whole life he’d been trying to distinguish himself, from his brothers, from Harry, but he still never… Even with the war on, Hermione had great plans for herself. She wanted to _do_ something, to be great, to be known. She hated herself for thinking it, but could Ron handle that? She knew that he would support her no matter what, like he’d always done, but she feared that maybe he’d grow to… resent her? Could he live in her shadow, too (Hermione wanted to cry for even thinking she’d be better than Ron, but she’d always been a pragmatist)?

Perhaps more importantly, could she do that to Ron? Could she reduce him to second-place? If they all survived this (and they had to, they _had_ to), she was going to make her dreams reality, and she’d rather hurt Ron by breaking off their relationship than face the fear that it would crumble all on its own, to leave them with not even their friendship-- and that, she couldn’t bear.

  
 _xv._  
 _to run, to run away to find what to believe_

  
Hermione had feared Harry would lose himself in the war, and that was why she’d tried so hard to keep them all together, to not let him go off on his own. Ginny had told her he’d broken up with her to keep her safe, and Hermione remembered the surprise in Harry’s green eyes and in his voice when Ron had said ‘we’. 

_We’ll be there, Harry._  
 _What?_  
 _At your aunt’s house. And then we’ll go with you wherever you’re going._

He had meant to be alone, to struggle on his own, to leave them all behind. He was forgetting that his love made him stronger, made him different from Voldemort.

She knew that he thought if he didn’t throw his whole self into it that he would wake up one day to find everyone dead. That was what happened to the ones he loved-- they died. His mum and dad, Sirius, Dumbledore. 

But she couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let him push them all away, because what Harry had never been able to understand was that they couldn’t lose him either. 

  
_xvi._  
 _my heart is beating from me_  
 _i am standing all alone. please call me_  
 _only if you are coming home_

  
Hermione had been right, about her and Ron (and for once maybe she wished she wasn’t right). She could tell they weren’t going to last, during the war, but neither had wanted to say anything because even if they parted amicably, a mutual understanding that they weren’t right together romantically, it still would have hurt, and no one wanted to be on bad terms in those days. No one wanted their last words with someone to be sad or cruel or unkind, not when there was such a risk of… of dying, of never seeing them again.

Especially not when two people loved each other as much as Ron and Hermione did.

So they just left it. A brush of hands, an occasional bittersweet kiss, and that was all. If they both… _when_ they both survived the war, it would be different.

Though Harry had broken up with Ginny for her protection, Ginny had refused to be kept out of their plans, and Hermione had had to smile at that, because that was just Ginny. But Harry had remained steadfast in his thinking and hadn’t let her close again. Sometimes, every so often, Hermione had noticed him looking wistfully at her, but as the war dragged on and Harry got more caught up in Horcruxes and raids and Order meetings and Dark Mark sightings the looks and the sighs became fewer and far between, and Hermione wasn’t the only one who noticed.

She had come across Ginny crying one night, when Harry had been… away (risking his life, fighting Death Eaters, trying to save the world), and she’d sat down beside her and ran gentle fingers through strands of long red hair as Ginny had cried with her head in Hermione’s lap.

  
 _xvii._  
 _and in the darkest night_  
 _if my memory serves me right_  
 _i’ll never turn back time_

  
How long had it lasted? Months? Years? Hermione couldn’t really say, except that it had been too long. Too many tears, too much fear, too much blood. Black drapes on windows and dark veils over ladies’ faces, flowers for funerals that brought back memories of weddings and small unmarked gravestones for… for the remains, when the bodies couldn’t be identified.

Had she been innocent once? Had there been a time before, before all this terror and madness, before she knew what it was like to take a life, to lose a friend? She couldn’t remember, and she wanted to-- God, she wanted to.

He had left, Harry, in the evening, without revealing what he was up to. She’d thought it was just another raid, he’d said he was meeting up with some of the Aurors, he’d told her not to worry, said he hadn’t needed her help, and she’d believed him, why had she _believed_ him? It was Harry, after all!

It had started as their ordinary ritual. She had said to be careful, he had said he would see her soon, she’d leant to kiss his cheek, and then it had changed-- he’d turned his head and met her lips with his and she’d been too startled to do anything but fall against him with her fingers in his messy hair, wondering _when did this happen?_ till he’d pulled away. Harry had smiled a bit then, and kissed her forehead, and Disapparated. 

She should have noticed the trembling of his hands and the emotion in his bright eyes, should have registered the ball of dread in the pit of her stomach. Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, it didn’t matter because she hadn’t.

Harry hadn’t met with any Aurors. He’d had his own plan, and he’d gone straight to Voldemort. Hermione had been preparing for some sort of climactic final battle, with good witches and wizards facing off against the Death Eaters (perhaps she’d read too many books), while Harry faced Voldemort because she knew he had to, but he wasn’t supposed to be _alone._ That had been the whole point, everything they’d been working for together, but in the end he’d made it his own fight, and nothing went the way it was supposed to.

When hours later Ron Apparated into her flat, shaking and pale, he hadn’t needed to say anything. She’d walked over to him, as firmly as she could manage, and let him engulf her in his arms. 

She hadn’t cried. That would come later, when she lay in her bed alone and told herself she wasn’t in love with Harry Potter.

She wasn’t.

  


_The End_


End file.
